


I'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knife

by blueberrywizard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (I can't believe I forgot about the most important tag ever), (he's always soft in my fics I just can't write him any other way), And it's been a bitch to write, Author Is Not Religious, Bisexual Napoleon Solo, But Author was also raised Catholic, Caring Illya, Catholic Guilt, Character Study, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kleptomania (mentioned), Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Seven Deadly Sins, So basically I unloaded a lot of shit on Napoleon but it's for /aesthetic/, So it was almost therapeutic, Soft Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrywizard/pseuds/blueberrywizard
Summary: "Seven deadly sins,also called seven capital sins or seven cardinal sins; in Roman Catholic theology, the seven vices that spur other sins and further immoral behaviour. They are:pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth.Each of these can be overcome with the seven corresponding virtues ofhumility, charity, chastity, gratitude, temperance, patience, and diligence."Or Napoleon Solo's story said through his sins.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	I'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knife

**Author's Note:**

> Good Lord, how glad I am that I finally finished this fic! It's been harder than I thought it would be, but I'm really proud of that one. It's been a bit of an experiment anyway, but I think it worked.
> 
> I tagged all of the disturbing themes, most of them are only mentioned, because I'm rather minimalistic in my writing. Also English is not my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes you may found.
> 
> Title from "Take Me To Church" by Hozier. Summary is from Encyclopaedia Britannica.

* * *

_lust_

* * *

_If you’re gonna be the death of me, that’s how I wanna go._

He knew _lust_ better than any other sin. He wore it inside of his skin for so long, he couldn’t remember times when he hadn’t been feeling it. It’s been growling, like a feral animal, making him notice things, making him _want._ It was like taking a deep breath of cold night air, or drinking fresh water in the middle of summer day; exhilarating and making him lightheaded in the most pleasurable way. Addictive feeling, it was, like nothing else in the world. 

He knew exactly when he felt _lust_ for the first time.

He was fourteen and he had been in relationships before; small, fleeting things he had with pretty girls from the neighbourhood. Their braids were so shiny, skirts getting shorter and shorter with time, as they were teasing him and letting him kiss them, but then they were flashing a quick smile and going home to their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. He liked chasing these brief moments, when they could feel like they’re trading something – attention, flowers, small trinkets, touches – but he never felt lust before. It was a game, played by both parties, and games are never meant to be serious. That's why they're games, after all.

He saw him working on the docks, his white shirt and blue denim of work clothes should make him plain, just another worker in difficult times, but somehow, the longer he watched his brown curls, breaking out of heavy pomade because of sweat, the stronger pull he felt towards this man. He watched him from afar, hidden in plain sight – he’s still just a kid – and he knew he _wanted._

He didn’t know what he wanted exactly. The man must’ve been much older than him, even though his face was full of youth, and almost always smiling, especially when it was time to come home. He thought about how it would feel to kiss these cheekbones, how his hands would feel in his, but mostly he wondered how it feels to move with such a nonchalance, as if the whole world, and people in it, belong to him. He knew the man had nothing and yet, it felt as if he had everything. _How,_ he asked himself over and over again, _how can one man look like a king, feel like a king, when all around him, where his kingdom should be, is nothing more than poverty and despair, and heartless men in a soulless world?_

The last time he had seen him in sturdy, green cloth of military uniform. For a moment, _lust_ burned hot in his stomach and then it was gone. Just like the man from docks. He never saw him again. 

He was foolish enough for wanting what he had, unaware what it meant. 

So he enlisted.

He thought he was older, wiser, more aware now, but _lust_ only grew inside him as he aged. He learnt to desire so many different people and learnt how to make them desire him. He thought he had it under control as he moved from country to country, never resting, never stopping. 

It was so overwhelming, when he felt it again, just like a powerful wave he can’t stop. He was swallowed by it while sitting in the back seat of a tiny german car, watching tall ~~handsome~~ Russian run after them. Miss Teller asked him back then why he hadn’t shot him and he answered her truthfully.

“It doesn’t seem like a right thing to do.”

_Lust_ was his first sin, and the first step to his downfall.

* * *

_gluttony_

* * *

_I’m lighter when I’m lower, I’m higher when I’m heavy._

Miss Teller grimaced in disgust when he handed her a plate with dinner. He knew it was a perfect example of _gluttony,_ but he couldn’t stop himself – after all it was all about selfishness and placing his own impulses higher in regard than everybody else’s. And he really wanted to eat a fucking risotto right now. It wasn't his comfort food per se, and he didn't have a need for it in this particular moment anyway, but it was close enough to fill the criteria for both categories. Also: truffles, therefore another reason to piss Sanders off (he wasn't exactly subtle while buying them, or pursuing money for buying them, but it was a great cover for doing even less legal stuff).

He always viewed food as something calming. Not only preparing it, this meticulous and precise process, but the feeling he had when his stomach was full, and he could focus on something else for a minute. He needed these moments of peacefulness, dissociation from the world, because the world was a fucked up place (he was fucked up) and he was sick of it.

It started as something completely innocent. It was the only thing that connected him to his family. His father was almost never present, working as a janitor, and then going god knows where, leaving without a word. His mother didn’t care about it anymore, as long as he brought money and sometimes fixed things that needed to be repaired immediately. She didn’t care that much about him either. He didn’t understand why, but at the same time he had never worked up the courage to ask her. She probably wouldn't tell him, anyway. Or maybe she would, just to stab him where it hurts the most, to break something in him, just like it had been broken in her. But they had food on a table, fresh clothes to wear, and he always knew how to keep his mouth when it matters the most – it was enough at the time. 

He wanted more.

His mother told him to make pasta for dinner when he was eleven. She didn’t elaborate on it, but when he finished, undersalted sauce and slightly hard macaroni was the best food he had ever tasted. It didn’t make her proud, though, since nothing really made her proud, but it made her satisfied enough, so he continued his quest in search of perfect taste. He started listening to whatever she had to say about preparing meals and combining flavours. She had said it with the simplicity of a poor woman trying to feed an equally poor household the best she could. And he wanted to learn, because there was nothing else for him to do, and maybe, just maybe, because he had thought that if he'll learn everything he could, his mother would like him enough to be proud of him. 

He picked up the real _gluttony_ after real hunger ended. He knew exactly when this wild anticipation for rich, deep, savoury tastes began - in France, because honestly, it was the best place for exploring finer things in life. He had bœuf bourguignon in Burgundy and soupe au pistou in Provance, katsudon and kamameshi in Sapporo, just after he had started to learn Japanese, and strogonoff in the finest Moscow restaurant, before the Iron Curtain made it all quite complicated. He ate pierogi in Cracow, mrouzia in Casablanca, and he discovered he had a sweet tooth after eating a piece of Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte in Stuttgart and panna cotta in Florence. His travels had been marked by various dishes he tried in different parts of the world, but for all his excessive desire for food, he also had learnt that no matter where he was, food always taste the best when it’s made with love.

And after some time he had learnt that nothing could stop him from feeling agitation and anticipation while seeing Illya, cooking his favourites, wearing his apron, moving around in his kitchen like a dancer.

_Gluttony_ tastes the best when shared, after all.

* * *

_greed_

* * *

_If it feels good, tastes good – it must be mine._

_Greed_ was something he developed over time. It wasn’t like he always had this desire, this longing he felt while looking at something beautiful or fragile. But he was pretty sure that it was what had shaped him into the man he’s now, and he knew the exact moment when it happened.

When the war ended, the world blew up. There was so much confusion, relief, and the whole plate of feelings that people hadn’t been naming, because they also lost so much and so many, they just wanted to live again. 

He found that painting completely by accident. He didn't even know what he had been looking at, but he took it anyway. Something about it tempted him, led him, like a puppet on a string or maybe a dog on a leash, but he followed. He had spent so many hours looking at it in various apartments, he was pretty sure he knew every inch by heart. It was a symbol of freedom, and softness he never felt, for he had never been allowed to be truly free, to be soft, curious, daring and teasing, like a promise of a good time, yet innocent enough to be heartbroken afterwards. Yes, war broke him like life nothing ever did before, but without it, he would never shape himself into the man he is now. With all his sins and faults, and larger than life love for art and pretty things. And, once again, the painting had been his starting point.

His warm, brown eyes, looking slightly over his right arm, were the reason that he decided to take the painting from Obersturmbannführer’s bunker somewhere in Southern Poland. He had been very dead, so what use it could be for him now anyway? And _Young Man_ ’s warm, brown eyes, soft waves of hair and delicate texture of fur made him feel anger, made him feel _greed._ It wasn’t the first piece of art he had stolen, but it was first he kept for himself. He couldn’t explain it, even if he tried. Or maybe he just didn’t want to say it out loud and admit that these eyes made him imagine a future in which someone will look at him in the exact same way: with love but also with a dare to be better, to please, with a smile that hides a lifetime of shared jokes and secrets, but still ready to embrace everything he is, good and bad.

In that moment, he wanted. All of it.

Later, his _greed_ grew up, vast thing inside him, and so did his closet, full of the finest suits, silk robes, cotton shirts, ties, leather shoes. His drawers followed, with expensive watches, cufflinks and tie pins made with rubies, sapphires and emeralds. He liked to _touch_ , to have this tangible certainty that he existed in this world, and it won’t tear him apart, shred him to pieces. _Greed_ helped him build his armour, because he needed it to survive. It made him grounded, because if everything else fails, he can always focus on his ring, warm from his body heat, but as sure as the gravity or pain. That’s why he always took some _souvenirs_ while travelling or working. As a reminder, an anchor, he needed so desperately to keep himself afloat, but in a place he could reach. He knew what made him, he was aware of all his dark places he hid under suits and easy smiles and sometimes, sometimes he had been afraid of them. Of what he could be capable of, if his anchor fails.

Nevertheless, he always came back to _Young Man._ It’s not the only thing he kept hidden from CIA, because fuck the government and their agencies, but it’s the only one he would rather die first than told them. He was pretty much aware of how enormous amount of money the painting had been worth, but he never cared about it, not in this case. The painting helped him remind of a balance, because life’s all about balance.

Balance between life and death, humanity and nature, feelings and rationality, men and women, Heaven and Earth, or rather Heaven and Hell. Between his _greed_ and charity, but he couldn’t find more of it inside than what he had already tried to do, after war. 

He wasn’t a monster like them. 

But his _greed_ won anyway. That’s why he never gave up Raphael’s painting. 

* * *

_sloth_

* * *

_Press yourself against a cushion, yourself is where I'm pushing._

He always dealt with feelings by not dealing with them. He’s a master of repression and if it was an Olympic discipline, he would win gold every. single. time. For a man, giving his affections so freely and quickly, he wasn’t dealing with heartbreaks gracefully, that’s why he spent the majority of his life building walls around his heart. But once in a decade, more or less, someone managed to sneak through the cracks and tears they made in his wall. 

Somehow, the ones with fair hair always shattered him like nobody else. It was a weakness, but for the love of god, he had never claimed to be strong. He remembered their names, their voices, scents and even tastes (Genevieve always tasted like strawberries, even in the middle of the winter), small peculiar things that made them interesting, made him fall in love with them. He spoiled them, as well as he could, depending on times, even though he knew it could only end with his heart broken, and running for his life.

He had never called it _sloth,_ this dark, ugly feeling that always, _always_ came after. It was just something that always had been happening. Everything had its darker side, so obviously his love, no, his _feelings_ would have something that it's a complete antithesis of them. Universe requires balance, after all. There always must be a payment, it wouldn't be fair, wouldn't be _real_ otherwise, right?

It began somewhere between Berlin and Korea. This dreadful void, swallowing him, piece by piece, until he felt nothing at all. Somehow, he knew it was about watching Julian die in his arms, but he denied it, like he denied his feelings for him. It was about Angel’s smile when she gave him a sweet bun and a handkerchief to wipe his dirty, sweaty under German sun face. It was about Gilbert's calm demeanour when he fled, knowing he can’t outrun them, when they got his track (damn Genevieve and damn his blindness) and finally got him. It was about his mother, about Audrey, about Jean, about Henrik, a bit about André too, and finally, it was about Illya.

But Illya. Illya didn’t turn his back on him, not once. Which, honestly, was really surprising, considering that they're spies and the Cold War, and at least ten other reasons why people could betray their companions for less. Illya had been different, though. Always surprising, always warming his poor, battered heart.

He was quiet about his idleness and indolence caused by terrible boredom and apathy, crawling up his spine. He never said a word when all he was capable of was counting things and organising them, again and again, until he fell asleep where he stood. He never said anything when he came to his house, helping him with paperwork he couldn’t get done in the office, because everything was unfocused and just boring.

He asked him once, _why._ And he simply said:

“Because I care about you, Cowboy.”

Maybe _sloth_ wasn’t just about laziness and omitting responsibilities. Maybe it was more about insufficiency of love or his feelings, hiding behind walls he built, hiding so deep, he couldn’t find them anymore. 

Maybe Illya will have enough feelings for both of them, when he has bad days. And maybe, one day, Illya will stop reminding him of the blank stare Julian had in his final moments, while his blood had been seeping in soil, through his dirty, uncomfortable woolen uniform. Maybe he’ll forget about his honey-like colour of eyes and smiles he had for everyone, men and women alike. Maybe he’ll forget how his world turned to grey when Julian took a bullet meant for him.

But for now: _sloth_ had a home in his bones and sometimes, just sometimes, it poured darkness into his heart. Some things are simply inevitable.

* * *

_wrath_

* * *

_You can throw me to the wolves, tomorrow I will come back, leader of the whole pack._

He stopped thinking that he’s incapable of doing certain things or feeling certain things after the CIA had caught him. He always had anger in him, he had been a poor young kid living in a really bad neighbourhood, but he never felt pure, uncontrollable _wrath_ before that. 

To be perfectly honest, working for the CIA was some kind of containment, without bars and walls, yet restraining and suffocating. It was humiliating in various ways, but he kept on going, because everything was better than prison (and he knew they would kill him there, either as a result of a nasty “rumor” or saying it had been “suicide”; both of these were unacceptable).

But he had his _wrath_ and small rebellions that came with it. He was drinking, stealing and fucking his way through his assignments, targets and even unrelated to the cases people, just because he could. Because it was like taking sips from a chalice full of freedom, that was somewhere out there, waiting for him. He did everything that felt liberating, because he couldn’t forget every single word thrown at him by Sanders, or anyone else at the bureau.

“You drink too much, Cowboy.” Illya said once, he had the misfortune of visiting his place just after he finished talking to Sanders. That’s why he downed a full glass of vodka, not caring about courtesy or decency. That’s how things were. With a steady drum of rage beneath his skin, among other feelings, that alcohol could numb, just a little bit.

“Yeah, so what.” He grumbled, pouring himself another drink anyway. 

“That’s not healthy.”

“And I don’t care. You’re not the only one with issues, Illya. Just leave me alone.”

Illya left that night, but he had left a container full of homemade food, which clearly was his Achilles’ heel, and it made his _wrath_ quiet down, just a bit. That’s when he realised that it wasn’t the first time Illya had been doing this for him. Calming him down, making fim focus on the details, so he won’t be swallowed by his own rage.

Because his anger might have been triggered by the CIA, but it didn’t mean that it was the only thing that made him angry. Everything did, because it came from fear. And God, he could lash out like nobody else in the world.

Sanders’ phones made him lash out the most, since he could never predict why he had been calling him. It could be anything: he’s going back to the CIA, because they “need” him, they could have found some of his possessions he hadn’t told anyone about it, therefore – prison and losing ten fucking years of bleeding, sleepless nights and progressively developed alcohol addiction. It could mean that someone had seen him leaving very discreet, but also obvious to spies, places. And that would mean death or worse. 

Frankly speaking, he was tired of living in fear all the time. So tired, that he thought, once or twice, about ending it all, permanently, but ironically, _wrath_ saved him every time he had even the smallest thought. His anger made him a bigger asshole than he had been, and competitive like no one else in the world.

They could throw him to the wolves, but he won't let these bastards win.

Illya always seemed to know when his _wrath_ had been turning into steel determination, when he focused on winning, because he loved it. He loved winning, and he loved seeing proud glint in Illya's eyes, every time his coping mechanisms would get a bit healthier.

And sometimes, he could imagine himself, winning his freedom, without sacrificing his life over it. If his _wrath_ wouldn’t swallow him whole back then, that is. 

* * *

_envy_

* * *

_I don't want your happiness, I don't need your happiness, so never show me happiness._

_Envy_ is greed's uglier sibling, but God, how familiar it felt to him. It settled down deep in his stomach, making him feel nauseous, and a bit anxious.

It felt like burning.

He burnt with need, with desire, but he always got it under control. Things didn’t really matter, he could admit that, even if it was borderline hypocritical of him. But it was true: he knew how to handle the need for finer things, for soft fabrics and beautiful art. Yes, he had been jealous of that for a long time, but when he had worn his first bespoke suit, it faded away. He couldn’t feel this nasty burning thing, because now it became something available, no longer taunting him behind glass ceiling. It was exhilarating, like drinking too much of a fine champagne way too fast. It made him feel powerful, because now, something that had been hidden _from him,_ was used to _hide him from them._

But _envy_ on the other hand… He _envied_ relationships, closeness and domesticity that “normal” people had, the one with peaceful evenings with your loved one nearby, making you a fresh cup of tea. It’s something he could never say out loud, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop wanting it. It was also a bit humiliating, because really, he had been a grown man, and yet, something so trivial made him feel like a little kid on a Christmas Day, when he knew others had something he would never have – a happy family, warmth of _home._

When he stole his first painting, he knew that it’ll hardly be a thing meant for him, or at least not until he’ll retire, but he craved it anyway. And for a moment, he thought he could have it all, his work and some kind of relationship with Genevieve, but that went down like a lead balloon as quickly as it started. He was young, and still so naive, it was stupid that he – a thief and a wanted (in six countries) man – wanted to play house with someone who had undeniable aura of danger around them. It was foolish of him; wanting to be loved by her was a one big mistake.

_No more mistakes,_ he said to himself, sitting in a cold, slightly mouldy cell, waiting to be judged for his crimes. For his sins. 

Well, that was before Illya.

He would eat one of his suits before admitting it, but there was something about Illya that made him want to take care of him, and be taken care of in return. Small things, like making him dinner, because he wanted to show off a bit, or maybe because he loved the look of pure wonderment and happiness in Illya’s eyes when he made something just for him, and it was almost as good as what Illya’s mother had been cooking ( _almost_ is good enough for him, especially when it made him happy). Maybe he was a romantic, deep down, so what? It’s not like romance was dead.

Nevertheless, it was easier to pretend that he did not care. Because if he didn't care, he couldn't be hurt when someone will take it from him. 

But God, how he _envied._

He observed Gaby and Illya, together. How she touched him, she could do that without being suspicious, without any sinful consolations. She was everything he could never let himself to be. She was everything Illya would need. 

He saw his small smiles, directed at her, personal, but so soft, it made his heart hurt. He knew, deep down, that they were perfect for each other. Their dynamic, filled with friendly banter, but also full of undeniable fondness and caring for each other, was something that was never meant to be his. Not like he had wanted it. 

So he did stupid, but it was the only way he knew how to cope. He threw himself into arms of nameless, sometimes even faceless lovers. He wanted to forget and he couldn't drink himself to death, because Illya would throw him _the look,_ the disappointed one, that broke his heart and made him want to fall down to his knees and beg for his forgiveness. So, instead of doing that, he still fell to his knees, but for some blue-eyed man named Charles or something equally posh, he didn't care anyway. No one needed to know, right?

He always came back to an empty apartment, cold, filled with shadows and awfully quiet. He undressed in silence, knowing that tomorrow will bring the same _envy_ and heartbreak he had tried to erase so desperately, that perhaps he started to erase himself too.

* * *

_pride_

* * *

_I'm still standing better than I ever did, looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid; I'm still standing after all this time._

_Pride_ was the only sin he thought life had erased out of him. Not that he’d say that suddenly he's a selfless or altruistic person, but life kicked the living shit out of him, so no, he wouldn’t consider himself a particularly prideful man. He’s confident, really confident, in his abilities, because he had to be. _Pride,_ however, would make him stupid and careless, and that would mean inevitable death. 

He’s proud of his looks, his possessions, but he’s also painfully aware of his faults and mistakes he had made. At the same time he’s also selfish and impulsive, and pretty much unworthy of ~~Illya’s~~ love. 

He’s full of contradictions; inconsistencies and sins had been filling his six feet tall frame since he grew up to that height, and also became aware of said sins he had been committing.

But yes, it still hurt his _pride_ when that fucking nazi had been waving a very sharp, and seven inch long knife around and his face got caught up in the middle of his next swing. He bled like a struck pig and gave Illya quite a fright when he had found him – he had broken nazi’s neck, furious grimace on his face, smearing blood on his face and his favourite suit from Savile Row, because he couldn’t see anything and he was absolutely _pissed._ He was positively sure he looked feral.

“Where’s all that blood coming from?” Illya asked, looking just a bit frantic, probably because white collar of his shirt hadn’t been so white anymore, and his silk tie from Hermès had been so soaked that it had been easy to assume that bleeding was caused by the neck wound. 

“My face, Peril. Can we, please, hurry up and sew it, so I won’t bleed out, or worse, I’ll have a _scar?”_

Illya muttered something in russian under his nose, but he had been too busy mourning the loss of a perfect bespoke suit. God, his blood was literally _everywhere,_ even his oxfords from G.J. Cleverley hadn’t been spared. He suppressed a sigh and followed Illya to the car. 

“I knew you were a vain creature, Cowboy, but I didn’t know that it’s so serious.” Illya asked quietly while sewing his eyebrow. It wasn’t a long wound, but still, he appreciated how neat Illya’s stitches were, and for once, he could gave up some control if that meant that his face wouldn’t look like it had been butchered by a nazi. 

“I’m working with my face, Peril, it’s important to me.”

“So full of _pride,_ it’s indecent.” Illya smiled softly, just with the corners of his – very kissable if you ask him – mouth, while putting band-aid on his brow.

“Of course. I’m a decadent, capitalist pig, what else did you expect?” 

He was tired. Not of their banter, never that, but tired in general. Tired of struggling with his feelings, his life, his sins. And these were… oh, God, how much he wanted to kiss Illya right now.

He was telling himself that he had been putting his own desires, urges, and wants before the welfare of Illya and Gaby, but it wasn’t true, not really. If he had been really doing it, he would have selfishly slept with Illya, but he valued the importance of their team dynamics too much. He valued them too much. And he had been fenomenal at destroying good things in his life, but that one thing, that one precious relationship… he would rather die than destroy them. It was all that was left for him, all that gave his life some purpose. It wasn’t exactly easy to admit it. Where had been his _pride_ now, huh?

“Nothing that you haven’t shown me before.” Illya’s eyes were still so soft, he felt a bit uncomfortable to hold his gaze. “Nothing that I don’t already know.”

He frowned. 

“Yes, I’m- I’m aware that you know quite a lot. But you don’t know everything about me.” He had this weird feeling that this conversation wasn’t about Western decadence anymore. 

“I know enough. I know that your _pride_ is an armour. I know you care. I know _you.”_

“Illya…” He whispered, and it looked like a sign to him, because his _(his?)_ tall Russian lounged forward and kissed him, softly yet sensually. 

It was like a redemption, a forgiveness without a penance, a resurrection. 

He lost the track of time, but he couldn’t care less, when all that mattered to him just kissed him. Illya’s cold hands embraced his face, holding it gently, like something precious, something _sacred_ and important, and he was afraid to break it. 

“You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know my sins, Illya.” He whispered again, when they had broken apart to breathe. He didn’t trust his voice right now. He could still ruin things between them, one kiss is, oh, so easy to forget.

“I’m an atheist.” Illya said, as if it was the simplest, the most obvious thing in the whole world. “I don’t care about your sins, Napoleon.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to kiss him now.

* * *

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Full list of songs used in this fic:  
> \- "Collar Full", Panic! At The Disco  
> \- "Nico and the Niners", Twenty One Pilots  
> \- "Emperor's New Clothes", Panic! At The Disco  
> \- "Making a Man", Ripple Green  
> \- "Throne", Bring Me The Horizon  
> \- "Happiness", Hurts  
> \- "I'm Still Standing", Elton John
> 
> If you're curious, painting from "greed" is Raphael's _Portrait of a Young Man,_ circa 1513 to 1514. It's been plundered by the Nazis in Poland; falsely reported to have been found 1 August 2012, but the location is still unknown.
> 
> Also, I have this headcanon in which Napoleon had been born and raised on Brooklyn. And if you do the math right, there is a chance that he could have a bit of a crush on one and only James Barnes. I don't think they would've met, per se, but I'm really drawn to this idea of a small crossover. Therefore, "lust" happened. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
